


call upon destiny

by littlebyline



Category: One Tree Hill
Genre: F/F, au where mark schwahn was not responsible for deciding the sexual politics of brooke davis, but everyone shows up, let me be abundantly clear this is a breyton fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2020-07-08 22:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebyline/pseuds/littlebyline
Summary: in which lucas is going to have an epiphany, and peyton's going to have a baby, and brooke is a multimillionaire ceo and all-around-badass who already has everything she ever wanted. right?[end of s4 compliant, picks up four years later, not compliant to time jump]





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey! CAB!” Brooke yells, to no avail – it drives past her and stops at the next curb, in front of a businessman on a cell phone, lifting a few fingers and only barely acknowledging the cab driver as he gets in. She shoots him a dark look, keenly feeling the slight – of _course_ the cab would ignore her, with the week she’s been having. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she leans on her suitcase and lifts the balls of her feet, pivoting to the driveway’s entrance on the spikes of her coral Louboutins to wait for the next taxi.

“Need help?” says a man’s voice from behind her. Brooke whips around and surveys him. Tall, dark haired and broad chested, probably early 30s, no wedding ring. His face looks familiar, and then Brooke realizes that he was sitting across the aisle from her on the plane.

“Oh,” she starts. “Sure! Be my guest.” He smiles triumphantly, steps slightly closer to her, and executes a near-perfect wolf whistle.

Okay, so Brooke knows exactly what’s going on here, he’ll wave down the cab, ask for her name, shake hands, and with some magician’s trick she’ll come away holding his business card. Then he’ll make some transparent little comment – _I’d love to show you around Savannah tonight, Brooke_ – and put her bags in the taxi’s trunk before brushing her shoulder in a way that means sex and striding confidently away. And though this guy’s cologne smells _damn_ fine – it’s got to be Tom Ford something-or-other – he’s not up to her usual standard, face-wise. She’s considering a brush-off, but a cab’s already approaching and, hey, her bag is heavy.

“You have a talent,” Brooke says, turning towards him and tucking an especially choppy piece of hair behind her ear as she turns on her _glowing_ smile to its full intensity. She doesn’t really mean the compliment – she can whistle for a cab way better than that, two years of New York living haven’t gone to waste; she just decided not to because her mouth is really dry, the Zinfandel she drank on the plane a distant memory. She sees him calculating how much time he has for witty repartee. Apparently not much.

“Adam Geisler,” he says, extending a hand, “and I’ve been told that.”

“Brooke Davis.” she replies. “Nice to meet you, Adam, and thank you so much for the help. I could’ve been standing here flailing my arms for a while.” _Insert self-deprecating giggle, insert flutter of eyelashes_. She doesn’t come away from the handshake with a number – almost disappointing.

“Can I get your bags?” he asks, perking up. Brooke smiles beatifically in response before sliding into the backseat of the cab.

“Where to?” the driver, a jowly Indian guy, asks her.

“512 East Hall Street. Just a couple blocks east of Forsyth Park.” 

He writes the address down on a notepad. “I know the place. Is he coming?” he jerks a thumb at the cologne guy. Adam.

“Oh, no,” she says quickly, dismissal evident. Adam, having performed his duty and stowed her suitcase, leans over to look in through the open door.

“The pleasure was mine, Brooke. I’ll be here until Wednesday, and I’d love to get dinner sometime, if you’re interested.” And _there’s_ the card. Brooke takes it and smiles up at him. He just stays there for a minute, crouching in that awkward pose and beaming back, before giving her a two-fingered salute and closing the door. He pats the top of the cab as he walks away.

“ _God_ ,” Brooke laughs, letting herself slump against the seat, legs stretching out deliciously after the confines of the plane. She catches the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror.

“Are you here for business, then?” he asks, nodding at the shrinking figure of Adam.

“No, no. I’m in Savannah on pleasure. I have a boyfriend, though, so not interested.”

_His name is Seth Brandwin. He plays baseball? Maybe you've heard of him._

Speaking of Seth – Brooke turns her phone on to see several texts from him on the lock screen, enquiring after her safe arrival. She frowns. They’d gone out just last night, and she thought she had emphasized firmly enough that this weekend was all about _Peyton_ and getting away from her normal life and clearing her head. The kind of stuff that’s supposed to be a gentle nudge when guys start getting too serious – thinking they have a right to be involved in every weekend getaway. She hadn’t fully told her cab driver the truth. Seth wasn’t even technically her boyfriend. They’d been having sex for two months, and they got dinner when he was in town on a homestand, but they weren’t exclusive. Her decision. Seth was nice enough, really handsome, and an extra incentive to root for the Yankees – _But I_ , Brooke thought with satisfaction, _am trying to run a multi-million dollar company with the odds stacked against me. A twenty-two year old Southern woman who practically flunked out of high school_. Nice and handsome and good with a bat were not compelling enough reasons to get distracted or reeled in – Brooke had seen it too many times before, let your guard down and the next thing you know he’s got a diamond on your finger and his hands on the pocketbook while you become a day drinker and fight with the kids’ nanny.

“Are you visiting someone? A friend?” the cab driver asks, and Brooke grins for real, almost giddy. “The _very_ best friend. Her name's Peyton.”

For the next thirty minutes, she and Soumit (the cab driver) settle into pleasant conversation. He’s lived in Savannah for six years and has a daughter at Emory. His favorite place in the city is a little bakery called The Tea Room. He’s never been to North Carolina, but Brooke asks him how he likes the South, and his enthusiastic answer shows her she’s met a kindred spirit.

 _Peyton Peyton Peyton_ , her heart beats as the cab drives closer, and Brooke feels something deep inside of her become more relaxed, the tangled yarn that connects her with her favorite human unraveling as their proximity grows. The interstate blends into city boulevards, whipping by warehouses, Savannah skyscrapers on the horizon, and then he takes exit 167 and Brooke knows she’s close. This is Peyton’s neighborhood now, and she hopes that the ease with which she's able to do this thing now will never fail to thrill her. How this morning she was in Manhattan, looking over potential layouts for the quarterly C/B magazine and talking with Mouth about company finances, and now, just a brisk flight and a few hours later, she’s in the Deep South. As the taxi rolls down Gaston, she takes mental inventory of the different houses. Some are truly beautiful – three stories, maybe a little timeworn, but with balconies and painted shutters. _If only Jake would just take some money once in a while._ They drive by Forsyth Park, already buzzing with children excited for the upcoming end of school. As the cab nears Peyton's house, Brooke gets an idea.

“Turn here, please,” she says, motioning to Nicoll. It’s the street before Peyton’s, but there’s a little lane that connects the two, and this way, she’ll be able to sneak in and surprise her from the back without the taxi drawing attention. After paying and thanking Soumit profusely (with a generous tip to boot), Brooke is standing alone on the corner, Hermès bag tossed over her shoulder, carry-on suitcase slouched on its wheels as she peers toward Peyton’s postage stamp backyard.

There’s a little girl rooting in the dirt with a stick, a yellow plastic bucket next to her. Brooke’s favorite little girl in the whole world, definitely, at least until P. Sawyer hurries up and has the baby.

Jenny Jagielski turned six years old last month. Brooke’s known her for almost that long, since she was a cooing baby in a stroller at the Rivercourt, since Friday evenings spent pushing her around the mall with Peyton, since she was a downy-haired toddler held on Peyton’s hip in the locker room before a basketball game, sausage legs curled around the waistband of her cheerleading skirt, absentmindedly tugging on Peyton’s springy curls, chewing placidly on the oyster crackers that Peyton always kept in her bag for such occasions.

She’s Peyton’s daughter now – and Brooke would tell you that she’s always been Peyton’s – but biologically she’s the offspring of Jake and (Brooke scowls) _Nicki_. Nicki who’s in prison now, drugs, and honestly the less Brooke ever has to hear about her the better. She’s had too many talks with Peyton and Jake about their custody battle from hell to have much sympathy for a woman who can’t even stay clean for her own little girl. So now Jenny calls P. Sawyer “Mama,” and the way Jake will smile quietly over his coffee when he hears it makes Brooke feel down-in-her-bones good about that arrangement.

Brooke strides toward her, heels clicking, suitcase wheels purring. Jenny glances up abruptly, her pigtails swinging with the motion.

“Hi, little missy,” Brooke drawls. “Do you think I could talk to your mom?”

“Aunt Brooke!” Jenny covers her mouth with dirt-streaked hands in surprised elation, and Brooke’s heart swells when Jenny kicks over her bucket in her haste to run across the street and hug her. Brooke gets to her knees, arms outstretched, ready to receive it. Jenny gives the best hugs, ones where she digs her face into the shoulder of her aunt’s blouse. Brooke’s heart, frankly, _melts_.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Jenny says, awestruck.

Brooke squeezes her once more before releasing, kisses the top of Jenny’s head. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if you did!” Brooke rustles her bag purposefully, eyes gleaming with excitement. “And I _know_ how you love surprises.”

“You got me a present?” Jenny breathes.

Brooke shrugs airily; cocks her head to the side, nose wrinkling. “It’s not every day my favorite girl finishes kindergarten!” From inside the house, Brooke hears a door close and bare feet patter across the kitchen tile to the screen door.

“Jenny? Is everything all right?” Jenny looks at Brooke, delighted, the surprise hers to share. Brooke nods emphatically.

“Yes, Mama,” Jenny calls. “I want to show you something.” And Brooke barely has time to stand up before Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer’s tall silhouette fills the doorway, and as she stands she tries to compose herself even as her pulse surges. Brooke doesn’t know if she’s seen many things more truly, shockingly lovely than the way Peyton smiles at just that minute, surprise giving way to pleasure.

“Oh my god, Brooke -,” she advances onto the porch, screen door falling shut behind her, and Brooke really gets a chance to look at her.

Peyton’s wearing Daisy Dukes and her legs are so long and her feet are bare, the toenails painted blood-red. Her hair is braided to the side today. Brooke spots paint on the side of her neck. The bump beneath her heather gray tank top is significantly more pronounced than it was back in March. She looks relaxed and healthy and her skin is already starting to tan and seems actually luminous (is that a second trimester thing?). God. She looks really nice. She looks nice and Brooke can’t catch her breath.

Brooke drops her suitcase, lets it clatter, and moves to her. Due to Brooke’s heels, they’re about the same height, and as Brooke moves in for the embrace, she sees Peyton’s eyes already glistening with tears ( _definitely_ a second trimester thing), and her smile is open-mouthed and toothy.

“I’m here,” she says, as much to ground herself in the moment as for Peyton. “I’m here now.”

Peyton’s fingers brush a stray piece of hair away from Brooke’s neck. Then she kisses that spot, right below the pulse point, a motion light as a butterfly wing. Brooke flushes happily, is glad no one can see her face right now. These past few weeks had been difficult.

“Oh, Brooke,” Peyton says again. “ _Brooke_.” and Brooke hears that deep scooping thing in her voice, as good as a caress, and recognizes it, and feels the goosebumps rise on her shoulder blades in response to it. Well, her voice, but also the way Peyton’s fingers slid up under the hem of Brooke’s blouse, gently traced the top of her skirt. So it’s going to be _that_ kind of visit. Brooke hadn’t wanted to assume.

“I was _just_ thinking about you,” Peyton says, her face still buried against Brooke’s shoulder, still holding desperately tight. “Like ten minutes ago. I was vacuuming under my bed and found a box of old photos, so I took a break to look at them. I found one from the party at Nathan’s house where it started pouring on the beach. Do you remember that night?”

 _I remember_ , Brooke thinks. Like the flashes of lightning that had driven (almost) everyone inside, an image throbs out of her memory - Peyton rising out of the ocean, head tossed back and eyes magnetic and electric and wild and a hundred more things Brooke can’t name, skin alight with the salty droplets. Skin thrumming and and so, so alive when Brooke climbed on top of her later, tugged her shiny silver bikini top off.

Brooke just twists one of Peyton’s curls around her index finger, rubs a quick circle against her back before letting go of the embrace.

“Let me finish vacuuming,” she offers, and Peyton nods. Jenny is already standing on the porch, focused intently on dragging Brooke’s suitcase up behind her so that it rattles a little on each step.

“I got Jenny a present,” she tells Peyton. “I _think_ she might be trying to hear what it is.”

Peyton shakes her head ruefully. “That girl has a greedy streak a mile wide.”

Brooke laughs. “Is it any better if I say it’s a graduation present?”

Peyton pretends to weigh this for a minute. “Alright, she did do a great chicken dance today with the rest of the kindergarten. I guess we can let her have it.” She slips her hand companionably into Brooke’s as they step back on the porch, and Brooke hasn’t done the things where she asks politely if Jake is home from work yet but now she guesses she probably doesn’t need to.

She follows Peyton inside.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not the first time Haley Scott has been roused from sleep by a phone call from Lucas, but later, she’ll realize it was probably one of the most significant. The muted buzz of her iPhone disturbs the early-morning bedroom silence. As she slowly blinks back sleep, the contact picture for Lucas registers in her mind – so, smiling begrudgingly, she reaches out to answer. The picture is from the 4th of July last year, when Lucas had come up to College Park for a week. He’s wearing sunglasses and a horrible American flag tank top that he insisted looked good. Nathan had guffawed the moment Lucas drove up.

“Where’s your patriotism, little brother?” Lucas had said, swaggering a little as he moved in for the bear hug.

Photo-Jamie, wearing swim trunks, is seated on Lucas’ lap, lips parted wide in a grin that expose his Kool-Aid reddened baby teeth. It’s a little bittersweet. Not even a year later, and Jamie has added another few inches, and the precise shade of _little boy_ in the picture is already a memory.

Nathan murmurs as Haley moves to sit up, his arm trailing after her as she turns to the bedside table.

“Go back to bed, baby,” she whispers before grabbing the phone and standing up. With her other hand, she snags her robe and walks out into the living room, but not before she catches a glimpse of the bright numbers on her clock. 6:17. _Damn_ Lucas.

“Hey.” She answers after the sixth ring, once she’s propped comfortably in the love seat.

“Hales! Good morning, sunshine! I'm sorry to do this so early, but I really needed to talk.” Haley immediately takes stock of the situation. Lucas is up early on a Saturday morning, which isn’t really unlike him, but usually he uses his time to watch the sunrise or go for a run. And he also sounds - _nervous_?

“It’s fine.” She tugs a hand through the front of her hair. Starting to get split ends. “Actually, not a fine thing at all to do to the mom of a preschooler. Where are you? Still in Buffalo?”

“No . . . ,” he hesitates, “Maine. The top of Mount Katahdin.” Haley thinks on that for a minute. She’s about to say something, when –

“Okay, I just finished hiking down, but I _was_ up there about an hour ago.”

“I was just about to comment on how great your service must be,” Haley says. Lucas laughs, short and almost bark-like, into the phone, and Haley starts to realize that whatever’s on his mind must be a big deal. At least to Lucas, who, frankly, has a lot of “big deals.”

“I would’ve called an hour earlier if there had been, so lucky for you, I guess.”

“Luke –,”

“I’m coming home,” he blurts. Haley frowns.

“Already? I thought you weren’t supposed to head back until next week.” She glances at the calendar on the wall of the kitchen. LUCAS VISIT is written in red pen for next Saturday.

“I mean New York. But I’ll be at your place for Jamie’s birthday next week, I promise,” he adds hastily.

“Okay,” Haley says, cradling the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she gets a throw pillow situated behind her back. “That’s . . . unexpected. I hope the reason for cutting your big graduation trip short is worth it.” There’s silence on the end for a minute, either time for Lucas to gather his thoughts or just him trying to drive her crazy with suspense. It’s really not like Lucas to cut this kind of excursion short. Usually, it’s just the opposite – Haley on the phone with him, insisting that he get back to Davidson immediately, that _no_ , professors will not look kindly on him missing class, even if he may be gleaning more valuable experiences with the earth or getting inspiration for his _next_ bestselling novel.

“Yesterday, I drove up to Baxter State Park, because I thought it would be fun to spend the night camping and then climb this mountain, the tallest one in Maine. So I drive up to the gate, turns out they have a free spot at the bunkhouse for that night, and there’s not a lot of daylight hours, so I decide, _what the hell, I’ll make this a real adventure_. I hike up to the bunkhouse that night and hit the trail this morning at 4:30.” Haley whistles appreciatively. “Just wait. So on the way up, there was this awesome part called Knife Edge where one side is just this sheer drop-off, basically into the clouds.”

“Lucas,” Haley reproaches, “what was the ONE thing I told you before you left?”

“Don’t do anything stupid. This wasn’t though – just potentially dangerous, not _stupid_ , per se. And I was careful. But picture this: I’m going along, trying to keep my footing steady and stay focused, I couldn’t stop thinking about regrets.”

“Regrets?” Haley says, not attempting to keep the skepticism from her voice.

“Regrets. If I died on that mountain, 22 years into my life of endless potential, what I would regret not doing.”

“Hmm. What’d you come up with?”

“I want to know what yours are first,” Lucas says. Haley smiles against her will. She imagines him driving down some winding, isolated country road, probably sweaty, physically spent, but still curious about digging into the depths of her soul.

“Number one is easy. I regret ever leaving Nathan to go on tour with Chris Keller that spring after we got married.” Just acknowledging it out loud, _leaving Nathan_ , causes an uncomfortable twist in Haley’s heart. Lucas mulls that over.

“That makes sense, but I don’t know if it really counts, since you came back and everything worked itself out between you guys.”

“Worked _itself_ out? Luke, honey. Ignorance is bliss! The first few months after I came back were terrible, remember? We didn’t live together again for a while. But,” she says, “if you’re sure that doesn’t count, I also regret walking into the street in front of the café the night of the state championship. Not the most fun being on first-name terms with a chiropractor.”

“Ahh, okay, the back issues. That definitely counts, it’s just sort of boring,” he teases.

Haley puffs through her nostrils, righteously indignant. “You….jerk! You’d better be glad you’re a thousand miles away right now.” But laughter slips out anyway, a gurgle from a mountain stream.

“Oh, trust me, I’m shaking here. Which reminds me – I had a couple regrets come to mind, on that ridge, but I couldn’t really go over them too much because I was preoccupied. You know, trying to cling to the side of this steep rock face, ledge crumbling out from under me, my hands starting to get all sweaty, vultures circling overhead –,”

“You’re an imbecile,” she interrupts, grinning fondly. “Don’t go telling my son about your exploits when you get here, okay? His Tarzan phase already has him trying to swing from trees.” Haley imagines Lucas in his car right now. She can’t see him, but she knows he just glanced at the picture of newborn Jamie that he keeps clipped to the passenger side sun visor. It feels good that she can still read Lucas like this, good to know that this emotional tin-can telephone between them is still intact.

“Hey, no promises. It’s not my fault your kid’s got the world’s coolest uncle.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.” She can hear Lucas smiling, and for a minute, things are companionably quiet. “Anyway, your reason for waking me up at an ungodly hour . . . ?” she prods.

“Right. Once I got to the summit – _man_ , Hales, it was beautiful, right in time for sunrise – I sat down on this smooth section of rock and signed the ledger and just watched the first rays that are going to beam on the U.S. this morning. It was just . . . incredibly serene. I had to say a prayer.”

Haley cuddles a pillow up to her chest, tucking it right below her chin. Lucas has been the more spiritual of them since they were both kids. Haley’s definitely a Christian, and she’ll crack open the Bible from time to time, which actually – she doesn’t know if _Lucas_ even does that. But he has this constant openness, an antennae constantly twitching for the beautiful and miraculous and God’s hand in them. Haley sometimes wishes she could feel everything on the same level of universal resonance that Lucas does – if she had climbed that mountain, she probably would have been more closely attuned to the geological record left by the layers of granite surrounding her, or maybe the doodles scrawled in the ledger by fellow hikers – definitely not her increased proximity to the heavens. And yet, she knows that Lucas treasures her clear-eyed pragmatism as much as she does his steady faith.

“I had some time to think. And then it came to me, that the only thing that could possibly make it any better, any more satisfying, the morning, and the mountain, and all of it – was if I could have had the woman I’m meant to love for the rest of my life sitting on that rock next to me.”

Haley processes this silently for a moment, sorting through the handful of permutations that this poses. Lucas is going back to New York. That had to mean –

“So . . . you’re going to try to patch things up with Lindsey. Look, Luke, I don’t think it’s a _bad_ idea necessarily, but I am glad you called. Because you shouldn’t regret this breakup.” Inwardly, Haley’s disappointed. Lucas and Lindsey had called it quits for the second time last fall, but the warning signs had been there much longer. It wasn’t that Lindsey wasn’t a wonderful woman – and Haley found that as she got to know her, she liked Lindsey more and more – but something about the two of them together distinctly felt wrong. Whether it was the way they stood next to each other in a room, or how, on entering Lindsey’s dim, parquet-tiled apartment, Haley couldn’t imagine Lucas ever living there – she didn’t know. When Lucas had been with Lindsey, though, Haley couldn’t shake the impression that two puzzle pieces that were just slightly off had been forced together, offsetting the rest of the links.

“Not Lindsey,” Lucas says gently. “Just – let me finish, please. I tried to push the idea away over and over, but I couldn’t get rid of it. And then it just struck me, like this dazzling sunrise, that my deepest regret and the person I wanted with me were the same. I – I was thinking about Brooke.”

And there it was. Haley suddenly feels removed from it all – like she’s watching this conversation with Lucas, not participating, viewing some other version of her face contort in surprise.

“Brooke . . . Davis?” Haley’s voice cracks. She giggles at her own question. “Like, our Brooke?”

“Like, Brooke: former Ravens cheerleader, big-time _Forbes_ cover girl, Jamie’s godmother, likes Yankees baseball players and piña colada ice cream. We might be talking about the same person.” And in the silence that follows, Haley knows what Lucas called for. Encouragement from good ol’ constant Haley. Understanding. She doesn’t know if she can dole it out this time.

“Wow!” Haley shakes her head slowly, mind still reeling. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to turn around whatever car you’re driving, climb to the top of that mountain again, have another epiphany that isn’t crazy as hell, and then call me again when you’re back to your senses. I know it’s not fun now, but I’m saying this out of love and my unending wisdom.”

“Haley James.” Lucas says her maiden name evenly, unfazed. It’s a tactic that unwittingly calls to mind the length and scope of their friendship, and it’s deviously effective. “I _know_. But what you don’t know is that I’ve had persistent feelings for Brooke for the past three years. And I’ve tried to get rid of them, just like you’re saying. But now I have real clarity. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but this is it.”

“This is it,” she repeats, numbly. Lucas echoes her.

“ _This is it_. And it always has been, but I’ve been stupid and distracted and -,” he pauses, a strained exhale. “And I’ve never had the kind of respect for her I should have. But I’ve changed, and she’s changed, and now I want to marry her.” Haley feels the beginnings of a migraine start to build in her temples. Her years of counseling a lovelorn Lucas through the ups and downs of romance – Lindsey, Anna, Peyton (good _Lord_ ), and, of course, Brooke – feel like decades.

“Okay, Luke, I don’t even know where to start – since when? We don’t really talk about you a lot when Brooke comes – I figure that’s the way she wants it – but I know that after your book came out, Brooke was _infuriated_ by some of the things you wrote. She said it made it hard for potential investors to take her seriously when they’d read that she was, like, your ditsy pornstar ex from high school.”

Lucas’s laugh is a study in discomfort. “Remember that conversation senior year where you told me it was maybe a bad idea to use my classmates’ real names in the book?”

“The conversation where you ignored my advice? I remember!”

“So . . . yeah, I’ve read some of her interviews. Hales, you’ve gotta understand, I was in a different place two years ago. Lindsey was my _editor_ , and she _hated_ reading anything that flattered Brooke.”

“I know. But it’ll be harder to convince Brooke,” Haley debates whether it’s necessary before adding – “again.”

“Doesn’t matter how long it takes,” he says, forcing buoyancy. “So. This may require you to help me out from time to time, you know, putting good words about me in Brooke’s ear. Do I have your blessing?” Haley pulls a face and laboriously gets up from the couch, moving to warm herself in the early shafts of light that beam through the sliding glass door.

“My two best friends in the world getting back together.” Her mouth softens involuntarily. “No, Luke, in theory, I’m not against it at all. I just think you should, you know, get back on speaking terms with Brooke before you make any grand declarations.”

“Grand declarations?” Lucas sounds insulted, a verbal hand to his deeply wounded heart. “And you act like you know me.” They both laugh, any tension falling away. “That’s why I’m going back to New York. To try to talk to her, if she’ll let me.”

Haley exhales sharply. “Uh oh. No, that’s not going to work.”

“Why?” She can hear the rising panic in Lucas’ voice.

“Brooke’s in Savannah this weekend.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Brooke was a little girl, her favorite thing about Tree Hill was the crickets.

Every night, during the languorous childhood summers, she’d hear them. No matter what the day had brought: her parents sniping at each other during dinner, or spraining her wrist the first time she attempted a back handspring, or drinking her first grown-up coffee at Karen’s with Peyton and Bevin—it would always end with cricket music. She’d open the window wide, sit up under the sea-green gauze of her bed canopy, let the chirps drift in through the screen as she painted nails or braided friendship bracelets.

There aren’t any crickets in Manhattan. But here, in Savannah, in the house where Peyton lives, it’s the same as it ever was. 6:25 a.m., and the last electric pulses of Brooke’s orgasm are ebbing away, and she can tell by looking at the gap between the curtains that the day’s already dawning. 

Brooke gives Peyton’s firm bicep a quick squeeze, and summoning all her effort, scoots to the other side of the bed so Peyton can collapse next to her on the mattress. Brooke likes this part almost as much as the sex—the both of them catching their breaths, the wry, close-lipped smiles before they glance away from each other again, the cockeyed rotation of Peyton’s elbow as she unties her hair. _Oops, we did it again!_ Usually they don’t say much of anything. Peyton’s always been kind of sleepy after they mess around, and now is no different—she’s already tugging the sheet up from the end of the bed so she can curl up underneath it, loose and content. Brooke scans the floor for her bra and panties. It’s not like she doesn’t want to stay and chat, or whatever, but they went three rounds each last night and another one this morning, and Peyton needs her sleep. Brooke hadn’t even meant to stay until morning—she must’ve been pulled under last night, some loose-limbed postcoital coma. Brooke moves to stand, and the bed shifts slightly.

“Leaving so soon?” Peyton murmurs, her face almost entirely swathed in pillow.

“Just thought I’d head out to the couch. You know, in case Jenny gets up early.”

“C’mon, Brooke.” Peyton blindly stretches out a hand. Her fingertips briefly scan the spot where Brooke’s head was lying a few moments before. Finding nothing but an indentation in the pillow, she retracts them. “You don’t need to do all that. We can just put our shirts back on and it’ll be fine.”

Brooke pulls her bra straps up over her arms, makes a face that Peyton can’t see.

“No, seriously! You’ve got more room to spread out this way.” Peyton doesn’t respond for a minute, and Brooke takes advantage of her silence to shimmy back into her panties, snags the sleep shirt that landed over a corner of the TV. “Do you mind if I grab a towel? I think I’m gonna shower later.”

“Hey.” Peyton says, and her voice is suddenly weighty in a way that immediately twangs something anxious in Brooke. Cautiously, she turns around to see Peyton sitting up against the headboard, lips pulled tight. “You ran away right after last time, too. Is everything good?”

With Peyton’s shirt still off and her tits _right there_ , it takes a minute for Brooke to register the import of what she’s saying. _After last time . . ._ she and Peyton don’t talk “last time,” usually. But then, they don’t talk about “next time” either, and there’s always been “next time,” even when they stopped for two years in high school and Brooke almost thought she’d imagined all of it.

Brooke fiddles with one of her earrings, plasters on an easy smile. “Peyt, it’s cool. I’m not upset or anything. I guess I’m just wigged a little bit by—,” she looks meaningfully at Peyton’s stomach, waggles her eyebrows in a futile attempt at comedy. Brooke’s just hoping that it’s enough to get the point across without making things uncomfortable—without Peyton getting guilty and withdrawn in the way that she sometimes does.

“You said last night you were fine.”

“No, and I, like, _was_ fine with all that stuff,” (Brooke waves her hand encompassingly), “and I know there’s not a ton of other options when we want to do this, but hanging out in the bed after just feels weird. You know?” Peyton considers this, then laughs in a way that is, again, _weird_ , weird and bitter. God. Two minutes ago, Peyton was mouthing her earlobe, coaxing her over the edge, and now they’re in this heavy molasses-feeling conversation and Brooke _really_ just wants to be in the living room. She’ll make pancakes from scratch for everyone if Peyton just lets this battle go, rolls over and falls back into a dreamless sleep.

“Weird because Jake and I have sex here? Well. Maybe it’ll make you feel better to know that we don’t actually do so much of that,” Peyton muses. Says it just like that, like nothing, like polite morning conversation, like she’s waiting for Brooke’s friendly opinion on the matter. Brooke can still see part of herself shimmering on Peyton’s fingertips.

“Stop,” Brooke says, registering the tightness in her own voice a beat after it emerges, “like, actually. _Stop_. You shouldn’t say that shit.”

“I can’t talk to you?”

“You know what? No, not right now! Not that stuff! God, _Peyton_!”—Brooke hears her voice getting uncomfortably loud, wake-up-Jenny loud, and immediately modulates down to a rasping whisper. “ _He . . . SLEEPS here_!”

Peyton nods once, terse, but has apparently decided that staring out the window is a better use of her time than actually engaging with Brooke. _Classic_ Peyton—to retreat into her own sensitivity, creating a silence gaping enough that Brooke starts to second-guess her stance.

Brooke exhales all at once, a frustrated huff. It’s more than she can handle right now to be forced back into this teenage role of petulance, of irrationality; she might as well stamp her foot. “Peyton, seriously?”

“You’ve made yourself clear.”

“I’m not saying anything drastic, I just—”

“If you need to leave so much, leave.” Peyton still won’t look at her. She blinks hard, screwing up her features, like once she opens her eyes again Brooke will have vanished. Peyton never raises her voice, not ever, but when she _is_ angry, Brooke is invariably out of her depth. She leaves.

Okay, so she _doesn’t_ leave entirely, not really, but instead decides to take that shower. She doesn’t think _Get on the next plane to New York_ is what Peyton meant, anyway. The tub’s cluttered with half-empty bottles that have overbalanced and tipped off of the shelves: Jenny’s bubble bath and Peyton’s conditioner and some four-in-one stuff that has to belong to Jake. Kicking them to the side as she steps under the showerhead, Brooke feels a weird surge of vindication, wants to call Peyton in and shake Jake’s ungodly shower product in her face, like it’s the clinching piece of evidence that’ll communicate everything that failed so spectacularly in the bedroom. While threading shampoo through her hair (Brooke, for her part, always brings her own travel-size containers) she thinks she lands upon the right wording. _Yes, Jake’s gone most nights; yes, it’s fine if we mess around to take your horny pregnant edge off; no, you can’t spoon me in the house where he keeps his man shampoo._ It kind of works. Peyton will have to see the logic.

After getting dressed, Brooke steps into the still-dark living room. Glancing at the space underneath the door to Peyton’s bedroom, Brooke can tell the light’s off. Huh. So Peyton went back to sleep after all, then. She hovers for a minute, considers knocking, but then inspiration strikes. 

The outfit that Brooke packed for today is a sundress and espadrilles, sort of Audrey in _Roman Holiday._ It’s fun to be anonymous here, the plucky girl-about-town on her way to get coffee—the sort of job that high school Brooke would have dreamed of having, a gofer for some Condé Nast bigshot. The guidance counselor had chuckled when she’d said she wanted to go to a school with a fashion merchandising program, not even really bothering to hide her derision. “Ahh . . . well, the options _are_ somewhat limited by your GPA.” It’s not like that years-old memory still gives her a jolt of smug pleasure—that would be ridiculous—but in any case, Brooke smiles for the entirety of her walk to the neighborhood café.

The coffee run itself is the kind of blatant peacemaking gesture Peyton will immediately pick up on that will, nonetheless, make peace. Brooke has two days left in town, and she just wants things like they were yesterday. Before the sex. Not that Brooke wants to like, _un-do_ the sex itself—let’s be reasonable—but before Peyton injected things with the needless drama. The way that things were yesterday afternoon, with Jenny sprawled on the floor with a Pillow Pet watching _Hercules_ in the dim drowsy-warm living room, and Brooke rubbing a knot in Peyton’s shoulders, occasionally blowing away the stray tendrils drooping onto the _C_ of Peyton’s spine. Brooke doesn’t usually talk about work when she comes to Savannah, but this time Peyton insisted.

“You have asked me more questions about this pregnancy than my OB,” Peyton chided her, though with obvious, drawling pleasure. “I’m sick of this! There’s a baby in there, she kicks once in a while, she’s growing. Talk to me about the summer ad campaign.”

Brooke could tease Peyton about the big sonogram fastened to the top of the bulletin board, the dog-eared _What to Expect_ on the coffee table, but instead whistles low. “The ad campaign. Hmm . . . are you sure you don’t want just wanna hear about last weekend when we went clubbing on the Lower East Side, and Mouth got shi—” Peyton swats softly at Brooke’s wrist, stares meaningfully in Jenny’s direction.

“As I was _saying_ ,” Brooke corrects herself, “the evening upon which our good friend Marvin McFadden became decidedly sloshed.” Brooke feels Peyton’s smile in the set of her shoulders before she hears it.

“Start with the ads,” she says, “but then, yeah, the sloshing. By all means.” 

By the time Brooke arrives at Peyton’s favorite café, it’s just after seven. There’s already a bit of a line, which doesn’t surprise her: officious-looking moms in Lululemons, mostly.

She uses the dead time to check her phone and notices a text from Haley. _Tutor Girl_ , in her phone, still, trailed by a couple emojis.

_Hey, good morning! Hope you’re having fun with Peyton and Jenny_

_Can I ask you something about the birthday party?_

Brooke cups her phone’s screen with one hand, shading it from the sunlight streaming through the café’s window.

_hi gm! yeah savannah is going good :)_

_and YES go ahead. I’m sooooo excited_

Haley’s response is almost immediate.

_Is it okay if I call? It's kind of a lot to explain._


End file.
